THE DITTY.
15
If in the soil you guide the crooked share,
Your early breakfast is my constant care.
And when with even hand you strow the grain,
I fright the thievish rooks from off the plain.
In misling days when I my thresher heard, 55
With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;
Lost in the musick of the whirling flail,
To gaze on thee I left the smoaking pail:
In harvest when the sun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy drought supply; 60
When-e'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake:
When in the welkin gath'ring show'rs were seen,
I lagg'd the last with Colin on the green;
And when at eve returning with thy carr, 65
Awaiting heard the gingling bells from far,
Strait on the fire the sooty pot I plac't,
To warm thy broth, I burnt my hands for haste;
When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an oaf,
I flic'd the luncheon from the barley loaf, 70
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.
Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage less!
Last Friday's eve, when as the sun was set,
I, near yon stile, three fallow Gypsies met:
Upon my hand they cast a poring look, 75
Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook;
They said that many crosses I must prove,
Some in my worldly gain, but most in love.
Next mom I miss'd three hens and our old cock,
And off the hedge two pinners and a smock. 80
I bore those losses with a christian mind,
And no mishaps could feel, whilst thou wert kind;
But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn,
I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye Gypsies, bring him home again, 85
And to a constant lass give back her swain.
Have I not sat with thee full many a night;
When dying embers were our only light,
Your early breakfast is my constant care.
And when with even hand you strow the grain,
I fright the thievish rooks from off the plain.
In misling days when I my thresher heard, 55
With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;
Lost in the musick of the whirling flail,
To gaze on thee I left the smoaking pail:
In harvest when the sun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy drought supply; 60
When-e'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake:
When in the welkin gath'ring show'rs were seen,
I lagg'd the last with Colin on the green;
And when at eve returning with thy carr, 65
Awaiting heard the gingling bells from far,
Strait on the fire the sooty pot I plac't,
To warm thy broth, I burnt my hands for haste;
When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an oaf,
I flic'd the luncheon from the barley loaf, 70
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.
Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage less!
Last Friday's eve, when as the sun was set,
I, near yon stile, three fallow Gypsies met:
Upon my hand they cast a poring look, 75
Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook;
They said that many crosses I must prove,
Some in my worldly gain, but most in love.
Next mom I miss'd three hens and our old cock,
And off the hedge two pinners and a smock. 80
I bore those losses with a christian mind,
And no mishaps could feel, whilst thou wert kind;
But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn,
I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye Gypsies, bring him home again, 85
And to a constant lass give back her swain.
Have I not sat with thee full many a night;
When dying embers were our only light,
Whne
